


Now and Forever

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi, musketeersfest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:05:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8476432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: A series of ficlets for the 2016 edition of the musketeersfest on tumblr.(2014 edition here, 2015 here.)1 - Favourite character2 - An aspect of the show I admired





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Day One: Favourite character: d'Artagnan

he runs—

(there’s a place on a hill by a town in a grave that smells like rain and turned earth and there’s nothing but endless country around it, spreading and spreading and swallowing up the horizon. he doesn’t know the names of this place or the next or any road that he ignores or precipices he jumps from; just knows that he cannot stop, cannot stop, _cannot stop_ —the ground rumbles with the sound of horse hooves and wailing ghosts; condemnation reaches spindly fingers towards him through the dust left in his wake. he loses the loss that would have defined him; instead, he reaches for the first outstretched hand that would pull him into dance, and he never looks back. he never looks back.)

—he falls—

(there’s a person whose sweetness he cherishes like his next breath; whose kindness nourishes him and whose strength he uses to build mountains. d’artagnan wastes a lifetime seeking her when she begs to be found by his side; he would lift her when she would rather climb.  he substitutes sacrifice for heartbreak and distance for cruelty; when, finally, they have overcome the universe and themselves, he meets her with hard-earned humility. war and time changes both of them: smoothens their sharp edges and coarsens their every touch with scar tissue, and yet, they fall into each others’ orbits as though they have loved each other for as long as the celestial bodies have existed. he never looks back.)

—he fights—

(there’s a corpse skewered by a sword with his name on it; their blood flows from paris to spain to every unnamed field that’s witnessed the cold economy of his violence. he spars with flourishes that punctuate the air with the sheer intensity of his wants and his dreams; he fights like pure death, ugly and stark and brutal. he has athos’ poise—drilled into his bones—porthos’ strength and aramis’ flair and yet when he emerges from smouldering wreckage wearing loss like blood and blood like paint and roars into his next charge, he is pure d’artagnan. he is a soldier before he learns to wield the musket; the tragedy is that he becomes a man next. he never looks back.)

—he lies—

(there’s a smile he smiles that spreads with a slow, sinister grace on his lips, like oil on water. in it he’s discovering all the shadowed parts of his soul, the roles he slips into with lifelong ease. he preaches righteousness but lies roll off his tongue like he is living them with every breath—for a greater purpose, he reminds himself, _for a greater purpose_. this darkness is his only bridge between all that he is supposed to be and all that he aspires to do: it is the only way he can weigh honour in one hand and weave deception with the other. the dissonance is even more ear-splitting after the trials of war and sending a thousand heroes to die: he drowns his questions in wine and then swallows them all. he never looks back.)

—he never looks back—

( _we can do anything if we dare_.)

—he _is_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Two--An aspect of the show I really admired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve enjoyed a lot of things about the show, from the writing to the setting to the acting to the music to the cinematography, but what made me fall head-over-heels in love with it is something that one may argue is not an aspect of the show per se: the fandom. But here’s the thing, though: I think it is an integral part, particularly when it comes to the Musketeers. I’ve talked about it [here](http://why-this-kolaveri-machi.tumblr.com/post/130134692259/its-a-bit-of-a-whiplash-going-from-reading-the) a little, but think about it: the show is a fanfiction of a fanfiction, an interpretation of an interpretation, layered with meaning and nuance borrowed from multiple eras. Fandom—and all of the fanworks that come from it, including fiction, art, discussion, graphics, playlists and so much more—is taking that concept and giving it wings; in the past two years, I’ve seen this universe interpreted and transplanted so many different ways that I can’t help but fall in love a little more with every AU that I read. A wry, hilarious, critical and creative interpretation is at the core of what this show is based on—although the show itself tends to take itself seriously sometimes—and fandom carries on that tradition.
> 
> This is dedicated to that creative spirit: everything I love about this show and this universe.

_I love you._

-

The evening presses on her, tucking its soft sounds and heavy silences around her shoulders against the indifference of all the empty rooms in the house. She sits at a dining table littered with round coffee stains and cigarette butts, summons some memory that seems ever more nebulous in the stark electrical light, and lights a candle right at the centre.

Her phone rings, and she picks up. “d’Artagnan,” she hears at the other end.

She smiles.

-

He smiles.

“You are the _worst_ ,” Aramis tells him, streaking nicotine-stained fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck and _digging_ into the tender flesh, “the absolute. You know. _Worst_.”

“I used to be able to work a damn spreadsheet,” he says, trying to make himself heard over loud bar music. His voice breaks on every fifth syllable and the strobing lights are giving him a headache. _I used to be able to do many things_. “These days just looking at a screen gives me allergies.”

Aramis snorts. “My data’s all fucked up. The dissertation’s in the toilet. I have to… have to redo the entire damn thing for it to make any sense _at all_.”

“Well, I suppose this is the last time you’ll ask me for a favour.” His voice goes lower, gains some teeth. “Or you could just sleep with your guide.”

The pressure at the back of his neck increases, just enough to make his heart pound a little faster and drown out the music before Aramis leans in and tells him, “This won’t be the last time.”

Before he can ask what exactly that means, Aramis kisses him.

-

Aramis kisses him.

Sylvie sighs loudly from the captain’s chair while Brujon hoots. He breaks away and forces himself to take his eyes off Aramis’ swollen lips in time to see Athos running after what looks suspiciously like d’Artagnan’s right hand, nimbly scurrying away on its fingers.

“Um,” he says.

“My _ship_ ,” Sylvie snaps, “is not a setting for a screwball romantic comedy. It’s a mission to chart the uncharted, discover the unknown, rediscover the forgotten—”

“Yeah, we’ve heard all of that before,” d’Artagnan says, “but unless this ship starts running on fuel rather than ideology and rainbows, this is what you’re going to get.”

Sylvie tosses him a regal, dismissive gesture. “I’d be giving you a dressing down for insubordination, but it appears you can’t even get your damn hand under control. Thankfully I have an experienced crew that knows what we’re trying to do here.”

“Um,” he says again. “I was just in it for the money.”

“I was just in it for him,” Aramis says, shrugging.

Sylvie sputters.

Athos finally holds up the squirming hand. “If it helps, Sylvie, that any of us are still here at all after every failure this mission’s been through means that we still believe in your principle. Somewhat.”

There’s a long silence before d’Artagnan’s hand tells him, “Dude. That was _exactly_ the wrong thing to say.”

From the front of the ship, Constance cackles.

-

Constance cackles.

Marguerite flushes but presses her warm, sweaty hands against her thighs and says, “Let’s do that one more time.”

“You’re really going to catch me this time?” Constance asks, her eyes dancing with mirth. She’s just slightly out of breath; a few strands of her ponytail have come loose, sticking to her face with sweat, and her mascara’s running from one eye. Yet her smile eclipses all of that—eclipses everything—and she fills this giant, empty hall like it’s nothing at all. Marguerite’s never been this alone and this _full_.

“I’ll always catch you,” she says. The words are foreign, but her tongue curls around them perfectly.

All teasing vanishes from Constance’s face as she grins like her face could split from the sheer intensity of her vitality. “Let’s dance, then.”

She takes her hand.

-

She takes her hand.

Milady spins Anne around but there are four more figures lurching through the mist, their mutilated arms reaching out towards them. They make terrible, inhuman sounds—like something jagged and rusty is flaying them from the inside.

“They’re wearing _hats_ ,” Anne says, caught somewhere between fascination and terror.

“Good,” Milady says, handing her a pistol and cocking one of her own, “aim for the spot directly below. We haven’t much time before we need to get back to the safehouse.”

“I think you’re enjoying this,” Anne says, lifting her gun.

“It’s a zombie apocalypse. I’m just trying to survive the fallout and not go insane.” Milady tosses her a quick grin. “I call dibs on the short one with the terrible goatee.”

“I got the one with the feather and the blue sash.”

They fire.

-

They fire.

d’Artagnan is the first to fall; the bullet goes clean through the meat of his leg. Porthos is the second to drop—the bullet whizzes harmlessly over his head. Aramis and Athos run after the shooter while Porthos crawls towards d’Artagnan and clamps one hand over the spurting wound.

“Hey,” he says, “hey. Stay awake.”

d’Artagnan’s eyes are wide and terrified; tears gather at the corners and drip steadily down to his ears. “Porthos,” he says.

The hot, violent pulse of blood against Porthos’ hand is already starting to weaken; he can’t possibly waste time on useless reassurances when both of them know that he would be lying. d’Artagnan’s only interned with them for two months, but he’s seen enough to know that sometimes terrible shit just happens, and all your hopes and dreams for the future mean nothing when you’re fading away because of random chance and shitty luck in the middle of the street.

In the end, Porthos can only say, “stay awake,” again and again, because at least the kid shouldn’t be alone in this.

d’Artagnan’s stopped responding and Porthos’ hands are sticky and cramping by the time the ambulance sirens sound; with effort, he leans over and growls into d’Artagnan’s ear, “you don’t get to sleep now or for a long time if I can help it, kid. Now get up.

“Get up!”

-

“Get up!”

The man cowers, bringing up his bound hands in supplication. “Please,” he says, “please _stop_ —”

“He wasn’t talking to you,” Constance tells him cheerfully. She passes her gun to Brujon, who stares at it like he’s never seen it before. “This is just the first step, sweetheart,” she says. “It’s messy and not terribly enjoyable, but it’s quick.”

d’Artagnan idly drags the blunt edge of his knife along Brujon’s arm; he shivers. “I could tenderise him a bit for you if you want,” d’Artagnan offers. “You won’t even recognize him. It’d probably be easier.”

Constance slaps her husband lightly on the arm. “You’ve got to take off the training wheels _some_ time, dear. You indulge him too much.”

“I’ll do it,” Brujon says, taking the gun in a shaking hand. “I’ll—I’ll do it.”

“ _Please_ ,” the victim wails. “Please, no!”

“Ssh,” d’Artagnan says. “Brujon here is a Musketeer. Musketeers _never_ miss.” He appears to think for a minute. “Well, maybe cadets do, but that’s what second chances are for.”

The gun fires. The man screams.

“Good,” Constance says. “Let’s try that again.”

d’Artagnan steps behind him and steadies Brujon’s hand around the gun. “You’re a quicker study than I thought,” he whispers in his ear, and at the exact moment of the second shot, bites down.

Brujon arches back into him with a moan and nearly drops the gun into the blood puddling on the floor. The man’s still whimpering through his shattered face.

“Good,” Constance says. “Brujon, welcome to the Musketeers.”

-

“Welcome to the Musketeers.”

d’Artagnan links their hand with Athos’. “Where the past is the past and can go fuck itself.”

Athos blinks. “No, actually, what we do here is—”

“And the future,” they barrel on, “means _everything_.”

“I… don’t know what that means. Besides, that sounds distinctly unhealthy.”

“Screw unhealthy,” d’Artagnan informs him cheerfully.

Athos gently extricates his hand from d’Artagnan’s. They’re nearly at his unbearably quaint little coffee shop populated by an unending retinue of impossibly beautiful French people more interested in drama than profit margins. “I’m just… going to let Aramis take over your orientation from here.”

They nod sagely. “All for one. I get it. I _totally_ get it.”

Athos thinks wistfully and lingeringly of his liquor cabinet. Next time he’s definitely keeping that whiskey and Dumas novels _out_ of business meetings.

-

 _Say that again_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've fallen into reading about film editing and cinematography a bit lately, and here i was looking for an impressionistic, very visual style. i don't know if it's worked, but there you go.


End file.
